Who's Counting?
by Breaking Bunnies
Summary: Wishing jars, she calls 'em. (Majorly dialouge, majorly centered text, talk of religion.)


_January 2nd:_ _Ah, both my first WiR fic and my first Secret Santa. Mostly just a blended mesh of mind-drip, trying to get the character's voices worked out in my head, tied together with a stolen plot point from _Law & Order: SVU_. An untitled fic for _closestthingtoatypewriter.

Breathing is disagreeing with Ralph by the time they get to Diet Cola Mountain. Violently. The sun and his lungs must be in some kinda conspiracy together, owing to how suddenly_ hot_ it is, like the oven or stove this game sprung from. Something to show him, she'd said, hunching and yanking him forward while he'd tried his best not to crush any candy bleacherites. (With all the grace of a penguin on stilts, he thinks, his mirth a wheezy snort. And one who had tried studying ballet.) He about rolls over his knees— "Ya look a bit blue, Mount Chubu Coush."

Ere Ralph can huff out his reply, a jar—and a handful of peanut-scented air—is shoved practically up his nostril, the bottom still caked with dried light brown, small enough to be the typical candy-person's cocoa mug. If he looked behind her shoulder, he'd see a custom-made shovel resting against a familiar peppermint tree.

"Is that"— Sweet air, sweet air, wherefore art thou?— "Are we gunna payback that little—"

"Rancis? No. Actually, I got this from the recycling; old habits die hard, I guess." Her smile stretches taut, like a rubber band. "We're on a treasure hunt."

Which turns out to vaguely remind Ralph of digging up bodies.

Wishing jars, she calls 'em. Notes, bits of wheel tread or icing paint-jobs contained in plastic coffins and buried…somewhere…in this general area.

**B**reaking earth— uh, hard candy (not a problem):

"Why're we diggin' these up again?"

"To rebury them in the castle backyard; it'd be a lot easier having Sour Bill remembering where they are for me."

"**W**ait, I think it's over here."

"_You just said that."_

"I know, I know! It's been awhile, okay?":

"—Wait, I think I might have a map."

They're scattered about the space now like picnic ants, the craters. A sweaty (near-deadly with his body odor) Diaper Baby manages not to throw the shovel down and shatter it, but splits some Earth driving in the blade, with a roar.

**T**hird jar (they're buried shallow, and since they're always talking he ends up cracking every one):

"Got any boyfriend wishes in there?"

"_Bleh!_ That's like Calhoun an' a CyBug going out."

"_Well, thank you _fer scarring me fer life with that image. It's been an eye-opening experience, really, I'm grateful."

"I'm royalty now, so I don't hafta be polite, but you can keep on thanking me if you want.

"Anyways, I think Glold likes me, though, 'cause he swerved around a few power-ups whenever he was behind me. You could've heard Rancis an' Taffyta laughing at 'im from over here. Don't cha hate when boys do stupid stuff like that?"

"—Can't really hate what I've never experienced, kid."

"—I want to win races because I'm an awesome racer like that, not 'cause someone decided t' spill egg shells all over the floor.

"Now what about you?"

"Oh…oh, me? _Well,_ I've dated my fair share of—lovely, young specimens—you see, I'm very _picky—"_

"There's only one at most, isn't there?"

"Well, yeah, but she's Lara Croft!"

"Those are your dreams, Ralph, not reality."

"Let's move onto the next jar okay?"

**F**ifth.

She hasn't opened any yet, instead slipping all into a bag from her kart:

"What exactly do you do with these, anyway? I mean, what's the use of all this? 'Ts not like you t' just do, _nothing_ like this, y'know?"

"—Actually, I don't know, that explanation was terrible."

"I mean it's not like you to do somethin'…" A massive hand pivots on the wrist. "Counterproductive."

"Well, I pray too. Kinda. I guess. Does it count as a prayer if I'm not all OH GREAT AND MERCIFUL LORD, FORGIVE ME, FOR I HAVE SUCCUMBED TO MY LOVE OF BACON."

"No clue."

"I'm guessing that's a 'no', then."

Sweet Mother, he hasn't really been counting, but the sack's heavy enough to be carried on only his shoulders.

"Hey, about that prayin'—You really believe in that kinda stuff?" Not unkindly. It's never been never relevant to him: die in-game, respawn, die out and die forever.

"Well, it's not like we were programmed to really be _alive, _y'know? And yet here we are! My thinking is: You shouldn't completely rule out the existence of some molasses-kicking divine powers, seeing as"—She gestures about the two of them— "well, yeah. But you also shouldn't jus' sit around all day an' wait for them to hand you good fortune on a dinner platter or something.

"I mean, I wanted to be a racer, I made my own kart, and then one day YOU crash-land in MY game outta all of 'em. That's, like, the biggest, most awesomest random coincidence in the history of everything!" There's the peanut butter jar again, suddenly partnering with pen and paper. "Now do you one."

"What am I supposed t' wish for?"

"Maybe a girlfriend, for starters."

"Or maybe to continue being too awesome for one."


End file.
